


With Joyful Ring

by AfricanDaisy



Series: The Iathrim Chronicles [9]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brothers, Christmas, Corporal Punishment, Cousins, Discipline, Doriath, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Greenwood, Love, Second Age, Second Kinslaying | Sack of Doriath, Spanking, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-14 15:12:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16915254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AfricanDaisy/pseuds/AfricanDaisy
Summary: At the end of a cold day in winter, young Thranduil asks a question that his father struggles to answer. To do so, Oropher must delve into his memories of the aftermath of the most tragic event in his life: the Fall of Doriath.





	1. Prologue

_Ring-a-ling._

_Ring-a-ling-a-ling._

_Ring-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling._

Aran Oropher lifted his gaze from his final petition of the day. He looked toward the mantelpiece above the gently crackling fire, where a garland of evergreens interspersed with frosted berries and silver bells had caught his son’s attention. “Are you quite finished?” he asked mildly. Generally, he didn’t mind Thranduil ringing the bells. Nearly forty years ago they had been a source of fascination to baby Thranduil, and to little elfling Thranduil a few years later. Now that Thranduil was an adolescent they still gave him as much joy as ever before even though they were some of the plainest Yule decorations in the palace. No, Oropher certainly didn’t mind Thranduil indulging that side of himself that was still sweetly innocent, but the King did have some objection to it when he was hard at work. Besides, he rather thought it a dereliction of paternal duty to allow his son to play games when the elfling was in disgrace.

 

“One more,” Thranduil said.

 

Well aware that he, the King of Greenwood the Great, had just been told by an elf half his size that there was going to be one more jingle of a silver bell whether he liked it or not, Oropher decided to let it go with an elegant wave of his hand. One had to pick their battles wisely when it came to one’s children. Oropher watched Thranduil enthusiastically flicking one of the bells up and down so that its clear chimes rang throughout the study. The glow of pleasure on his son’s face made Oropher smile, but he effortlessly called back an expression of parental disapproval when Thranduil turned to face him.

 

“I’m done,” the prince announced.

 

“Indeed. Are you done with your lines?” Oropher queried.

 

“I wouldn’t have got up and started playing with the bells if I wasn’t,” Thranduil replied.

 

Oropher held out one hand. “Show me.”

 

With a dutiful nod, Thranduil went to the small writing desk at the side of the study where he had sat to complete his lines. He picked up the familiar, somewhat dog-eared book that he wrote in whenever he was assigned writing as punishment, and returned to his father’s desk where he presented the book with a flourish. “One hundred beautifully written lines.”

 

“Do try and demonstrate a touch more gravity when it comes to your disgrace, elfling,” Oropher said dryly.

 

Thranduil sighed and knelt by his father’s chair. He folded his hands on top of the desk and propped his chin on them, watching as the King ran the tip of one finger down the lines that had taken an hour to complete. _If a time and place exists where flicking ink at people is acceptable, the middle of the lesson when my teacher is attempting to educate me is not it._ “I was ever so grave when the ink went in Aiwen’s hair. The way that she and Elder Angoliel looked at me and Fileg, I thought that it would kill us both right there. But the thing is, she found it funny before that happened.”

 

“Elder Angoliel found it funny that you and your cousin were flicking ink across the schoolroom at each other?” Oropher replied.

 

“Ha, ha,” Thranduil said under his breath. “Aiwen found it funny, Ada. She was trying not to laugh. It was only after we got ink in her hair that she was upset.”

 

“Imagine that,” Oropher murmured. He finished examining the lines that Elder Angoliel had set for Thranduil, and closed the book with a quiet nod of approval. Angoliel would find them written to her high standards, he thought, idly lowering his hand to stroke Thranduil’s golden hair. “Now, there is one more thing to be taken care of before this matter is closed.”

 

“Is there?”

 

“I seem to recall that I promised you a spanking for this, laes-nín,” Oropher replied neutrally.

 

Thranduil groaned and moved his arms onto the desk, burying his face in them. “You didn’t have to say that.”

 

“Then don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Oropher scolded, lightly tugging Thranduil’s braid. “You know the rules. Trouble outside the home may mean trouble at home as well. In this case it does. By playing in lessons you showed a stunning lack of respect to Elder Angoliel when she was trying to teach you. I will not have it, Thranduil.”

 

“Really, it _was_ at home,” Thranduil began. “It was in the palace schoolroom, so…”

 

With a sigh for his suddenly all-too-precise son, Oropher clarified, “Trouble outside of the family, then.”

 

Thranduil’s gaze went distant. He didn’t say it, but his father knew him well enough to know that he was trying to figure out if there was any way of connecting Angoliel to their family other than that she served his parents as their Elder of Lore and Education. “Do we have to do it now?” Thranduil asked finally, when he had reached the sad conclusion that he couldn’t find a way out of this one.

 

“Now or at bedtime,” Oropher replied. “You may choose.”

 

“Oh, thank you so much,” Thranduil said, sounding just genuine enough that he couldn’t quite be called out for sarcasm. “Bedtime, please.”

 

Oropher nodded, accepting that. “Still tender?”

 

“Spoken like an elf who has never been on the receiving end of Elder Angoliel’s ruler,” Thranduil complained. “Yes, Ada, I’m still tender.”

 

“Then I suggest you go and rest. There are still two hours before dinner,” Oropher said. He watched his son stand and dutifully head towards the door, but Thranduil stopped there and went no further. Instead he turned to the mantelpiece and gave the garland draped across it a thoughtful look. The King only just managed not to roll his eyes. “You may ring one of the silver bells again if you must, laes-nín.”

 

“What? Oh, no, I don’t want to ring one of the bells,” Thranduil said. “I was just thinking. Why do we put silver bells up every Yule?”

 

“It is a family tradition,” Oropher replied briefly.

 

“No, I understand that. But why is it a tradition?” Thranduil asked. “Why do we do it?”

 

Oropher had picked up his feather pen to begin writing again, but he put it back down and glanced at the bells sparkling among the berries and fragrant evergreens. “Because they are festive, I suppose.”

 

“They are to us,” Thranduil agreed. “But Glorfindel has silver bells in his horse’s mane all year round.”

 

“Well, Glorfindel is extravagant,” Oropher replied. “Now go on, Thranduil. I have work to finish.”

 

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Oropher regretted them. There had been no obvious sign of disappointment from Thranduil. He always tried not to let it visibly affect him when the kingdom took precedence over him. Sometimes it did. It had to. That was an unavoidable and unfortunate aspect of their lives. But this time, the kingdom did not take precedence. All Oropher had intended to finish by that evening was an everyday petition that could wait until morning. He knew full well that he had used his work as an excuse to get rid of his son instead of entering into a conversation that he didn’t want to have. He felt awful for having done it.

 

“Thranduil.” The hope that dawned in the elfling’s deep blue eyes as he turned back to the desk made Oropher feel even worse. He returned the petition to a folder of work that he had set aside for the next day, and he placed that inside a lacquered chest on his desk. That he locked with a small key, which he slipped inside the pocket of his green and gold brocade tunic. Finally, Oropher stood up and pushed his chair under the desk, indicating that he was done. “Come here,” he said, holding his hand out.

 

“What about your work?” Thranduil asked, as he returned to his father.

 

“You are more important than my work.” Oropher put his hand on Thranduil’s shoulder and guided him to the settee. They sat down together, though Thranduil curled one leg beneath himself so that he could sit more comfortably. The King looked intently at his son, meeting his eyes. “You wish to know the story of the silver bells?”

 

“Yes, Ada,” Thranduil replied. “I do.”

 

“Then I will tell you,” Oropher said, and he took a deep breath to begin his tale.


	2. Memories of Yule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oropher travels back into the depths of time and memory to tell his son the tale of the silver bells.

A chink in the iridescent turquoise curtains covering the floor to ceiling windows was letting through a ray of uncomfortably bright winter sunshine. As Lord Oropher lay in his bed, blinking slowly against the sunlight, he wondered what had woken him. He didn’t think that it had been the sun. Sometimes when he woke, he experienced a joyous minute of not remembering anything or knowing anything other than that he was warm in bed and life was good. But then like clouds that turn a sunny day grey, his memories would come back. Today was not one of those days. Today he had woken with a familiar crushing ache in his chest. It paralysed him as he went through the motions of shock, pain, anger, and a misery so deep that were it water he would drown in it. Once, he had never known that such breathtakingly terrible feelings were possible. How he longed to go back to that time.

 

“My lord.”

 

An elleth’s voice. She must have woken him trying to get his attention. Oropher summoned his strength and sat up, sweeping his hair back from his face. Through the dark strands that yet covered his eyes, he saw a diminutive elleth in the silver-sheened green livery of Lord Círdan standing by the doorway. She was watching him closely, but when he finally focused on her, she quickly averted her sea green gaze. Oropher hated that. He wasn’t used to anyone feeling like they had to look away from him. And yet, he understood it. What did one say to an elf like him? There were hundreds of elves like him who had sought refuge in the Havens of Sirion. Even he didn’t always know what to say.

 

“My lord, you have a visitor,” the elleth said. “She awaits you in the sitting room.”

 

“Thank you.” Oropher tried to make his voice sound normal, but he wasn’t even sure what normal was these days. “Who is the visitor?”

 

“Her name is Mistress Felith. She is golden haired. One of the…” The elleth hesitated, catching her breath. “One of your people.”

 

One of the refugees, she had been about to say. Oropher had heard that word used for the survivors of Doriath but he had never really given it much thought. _Refugee._ He realised with a jolt that he was one of those too, though he had never thought of himself in that way before. Odd. He shook his head distantly and tried to concentrate on the elleth by the door. “Yes. I know Mistress Felith. Could you please offer her tea while she waits?”

 

The silver haired elleth drew herself up and coolly retorted, “I _could_.”

 

Oropher quietly thanked her and watched as she curtseyed before stalking out of the room with a disdainful sniff. It made him sigh. She had clearly been uncomfortable with losing her composure in front of him before. Well, it was uncomfortable for him too. The whole thing was uncomfortable. Having to reside in another lord’s home, and ask favours of that other lord’s staff, all the while wondering if that flicker in their eyes had been unwanted sympathy or resentment that he was just one more elf making extra work for them.

 

Reminding himself that Felith was waiting, Oropher got up and made short work of washing. The water was pleasantly warmed and scented with oil that reminded him of the water lilies that grew by the River Sirion. The clothing that he chose was dark. It was often dark these days. A shirt of charcoal grey under a tunic with the sides slit from his hips down to his knees. The tunic was black, but gold beading around the collar and the hem gave it a hint of colour. That was as far as Oropher was willing to go. He thought that anything more would be disrespectful. His calf high boots were of supple black leather, and his leggings a shade darker than his shirt. Finally, he considered his hair. He had kept Felith waiting long enough, so he forewent braiding it in favour of tying the top layer of his hair back with a leather band while the bottom layer hung freely down his back. It was appropriate for both receiving a guest and mourning, Oropher thought, as he stepped out of the room that he had been given at Lord Círdan’s mansion.

 

He made his way down the curved staircase of white marble, every step inlaid with blue and green gems in swirling patterns reminiscent of seaweed tumbling in a wave. The great oak bannister was covered with mother-of-pearl fish scales that flashed and sparkled in the light coming through high arched windows. They looked so delicate that Oropher never liked to touch them. As the bannister reached the bottom of the stairs, it became a carved fish head with glittering onyx eyes. Living fish of gold and silver flitted back and forth in a sunken pool in the middle of the entrance hall. Oropher liked to sit there sometimes and lose himself in watching the fish. Today he stepped around the pool and quietly entered the sitting room.

 

“Felith.”

 

Oropher spoke her name softly. With an indrawn breath, Felith turned from where she had been warming herself at the fire with its mantelpiece of whirls and spirals carved to look like crashing waves. The two young elves stared at each other from across the room. Months had passed since they had last laid eyes on each other, though Felith had been on Oropher’s mind whenever there had been room for her amongst the rage and grief. He wondered if he had been on her mind, too. It was only a fleeting thought. He didn’t see why Felith would have thought of him. Perhaps if things had been different…but he had been forbidden from seeing her.

 

It had been Oropher’s father Lord Celepharn who had spoken the words, but they had come with the weight of the King behind them. Elu Thingol, not Dior. Oropher didn’t know whether Dior would have granted permission for the eldest son and heir of one of Doriath’s highest ranking nobles to marry a commoner. He thought so. Dior had been somewhat more reasonable than his grandfather Elu. Besides, when he had ascended the throne, the likelihood of Elu’s youngest great-nephew Celepharn, and thus Celepharn’s sons, ever having to carry the mantle of leadership had become an even more distant thing. Celepharn and Neldiel had told Oropher after the ascension of Dior and Nimloth that when the dust was settled and an appropriate length of time had passed, he should ask permission of the new King to court Felith Istuioniel. They had promised Oropher their full support. But that time had never come. Just four years after the death of Elu and the departure of Melian, Dior too had been killed, along with half the people of Doriath.

 

Oropher and Felith took slow steps towards each other until they met in the middle of the room on a rug of silver and blue damask embroidered with seahorses. They stood so close together that Oropher could see tiny specks of damp in Felith’s golden hair and on her cloak of dove grey where snowflakes were melting. He didn’t think about drawing her into his arms. He just did it. He didn’t want her to be cold. Besides, such time had passed since they had last seen each other that he needed to have her near. It wasn’t even a romantic embrace. As Felith clung to Oropher’s tunic, it was just a moment of closeness between two lost souls who had lived through the same hell.  

 

“How are you?” Felith asked, as they finally drew apart. She blushed as Oropher hesitated. “I’m sorry. That was stupid.”

 

“No. I would have asked the same thing,” Oropher assured her. “I am glad to see you, Felith. Beyond that, I’m not sure.”

 

“It is difficult to put into words,” Felith ventured.

 

Oropher nodded in wordless agreement. Then, because he didn’t want to spoil the moment by attempting to talk about his feelings, he gestured to the sofa that faced the fireplace. He and Felith sat together with a carefully appropriate distance between them. “I was surprised when I heard that you had come here,” Oropher said.

 

“I should have sent word. No doubt that is how the nobles do it.” Felith looked down, self-consciously tucking a lock of wavy golden hair behind her ear. “I am more used to family and friends just dropping in on each other.”

 

“Perhaps I should have said that I was _pleasantly_ surprised when I heard that you were here,” Oropher clarified. “It has been a while.”

 

“Yes. Still, I should have sent word that I wished to come, and with it so early as well. You see, I went to the fish market this morning. They open while it is still dark as the fishermen bring in their hauls,” Felith added, noticing Oropher glance at the clock on the mantelpiece, which said that it was not yet eight o’clock. “You must get there early if you want the freshest produce.”

 

Sometimes, Oropher learned something that made him realise how little he knew of the world that existed beyond his privileged life. It had never occurred to him that one should buy fish first thing in the morning, but that made perfect sense. In fact, he didn’t think that he had ever bought a fish before. Caught them, yes. But never bought. Oropher didn’t think that he should admit that to Felith. He didn’t want her to think badly of him. “I see,” was all that he said.

 

“When I had bought my fish, I started to walk home and my route took me through the marketplace. In spite of the snow, vendors were just starting to open their shops and set up their stalls for the day,” Felith said. “I saw a little boy. He was playing with his mother’s wares and laughing like I’ve not heard anyone laugh in such a long time. It was the sweetest sound. When he saw me watching him, he gave me what had made him laugh so, and I smiled for the first time in so long. I really smiled. And I thought maybe… _maybe_ I can get through this after all.”

 

“Good, Felith,” Oropher said softly. “I am happy for you.”

 

Felith reached into the pocket of her dress of dark blue wool, and drew out a package wrapped in woven brown cloth. “I bought one for you. You don’t have to smile if you’re not ready, but I want you to have it all the same.”

 

Curious, Oropher took the package and undid the length of twine that was keeping the cloth together. When he pulled it apart, it was to reveal a small silver thing lying amongst the folds of the rough cloth. He picked it up carefully, turning it to look at it more closely. “A bell,” he murmured, as he realised what it was.

 

“It is a poor gift for a nephew of Elu Thingol,” Felith said quietly.

 

Oropher shook his head distantly and shook the bell. It jingled pleasingly, but the smile that Felith had hoped for him didn’t come. He rang the bell again, and then a third time, and slowly his lips started to curve upwards. He couldn’t help it. That sound, so pure and sweet, was like a silver reminder that there was still some good and light left in the world. He understood what Felith had meant. Like her, he didn’t think that he had really smiled since Doriath had fallen to ruin. And, like her, he suddenly saw that there was a hint of hope for the future.

 

“This is the best Yule gift that I have ever been given,” Oropher said. For a moment he felt uncertain. He wondered if he should hug Felith or kiss her, but neither of those seemed to be quite appropriate. He settled for looking up and letting her see the smile that she had given him. Felith smiled back at him, and Oropher thought that he saw the glitter of tears in her eyes before she hastily looked down again. “I hadn’t given much thought to Yule,” Oropher added, to stop the silence becoming awkward. “Though my uncle Círdan sent word from Balar last week that the staff should decorate his mansion here before his next visit. This is the first Yule since…since it happened, yes?”

 

“The second,” Felith corrected the ellon.

 

“Strange, how time has passed,” Oropher said slowly.

 

“Yes. Sometimes it feels like it only happened yesterday,” Felith said, with a shuddering sigh. “Other times like it happened a thousand years ago.”

 

“And that feels like a terribly long time when we have only five hundred and fourteen years,” Oropher replied.

 

“Fifteen.” Felith managed a small laugh as Oropher looked at her. “Did you forget already that I am a year your elder?”

 

Oropher could never forget that. “You used to remind me of it all the time,” he said. That was part of the reason why he remembered it. He wasn’t ashamed to admit – at least not privately, to himself – that he had memorised every little detail about Felith when he had started falling for her in happier times.

 

“Good. Don’t forget.” As Oropher shook his head in silent promise and looked back down at the silver bell, Felith added softly, “Yule must have been quite something in your family. Lord Celepharn and Lady Neldiel had such a beautiful home. The few times that I went there on deliveries with my father, I imagined that grand staircase adorned with garlands, and lovely ladies in sparkling gowns dancing with handsome lords, with a giant fir tree towering over it all.”

 

For the briefest of moments, Oropher was transported back. He heard a snatch of festive music and caught the scent of evergreens. Swirling gowns in every shade imaginable, the flash of Celepharn’s emerald eyes as he danced with his wife and lifted her off the ground with hands around her waist. Neldiel’s sultry laugh, her dark hair flying as she threw her head back. The taste of sweet liquor that Oropher had spirited away with his younger brother, and their cousins Rhosgeth, Amdír, and Nimloth, while the older elves – for the most part – enjoyed themselves too much to care.

 

“My mother wanted fireflies for Yule decorations,” Oropher said abruptly, forcing the other memory away.

 

“Fireflies in jars?” Felith asked.

 

“She thought that was cruel. She came up with this mad, genius, beautiful idea to cover the ceilings with netting woven of silver and crystals,” Oropher replied. “Her plan was to release hundreds of fireflies into the netting so that they would have plenty of space to fly around. My father put his foot down _very_ firmly and said absolutely not. Naneth didn’t argue all that much. She must have known that the whole thing was unrealistic.”

 

“Poor Lady Neldiel,” Felith said sympathetically.

 

“Well, she still got the silver netting. It was very pretty. The ceilings looked like they were covered in sparkling ice,” Oropher said. “And every few days, she released a single firefly into the house because she had already started stockpiling them. It drove Adar mad. Every time one firefly died or got set free outside, another one came to take its place.”

 

Felith laughed softly at that. “When was this?”

 

“Our last Yule together. My brother had just got married, and his wife was a few months away from having their daughter. It… it was a happy time.” That memory had become as painful as the other one. Oropher looked down, curling his fingers around the silver bell and using it to anchor himself. He took a deep breath then and lifted his head, meeting Felith’s eyes. “What about Yule in your family?”

 

“Nothing as extravagant as your celebrations, but it was special to us,” Felith said, with a reminiscent look in her blue eyes. “We had elflings in our family. My brother Gwindor, and many cousins. Every year one of the older ellyn would dress up as Adar Rhiw and come to the house on a white snow-horse with ribbons and bells in her mane. It was just our old mare, but she tolerated such nonsense. Maybe she even enjoyed it.”

 

Oropher had heard Felith’s voice catch as she spoke of her brother. Golden haired Gwindor hadn’t even reached his first yén when he had been killed. “Will you celebrate Yule this year?” Oropher asked cautiously.

 

“We intend to. Gwindor is gone, but our mother’s cousin Dagorion lives with me and my grandparents,” Felith said. “He has a son. Halmir. It might do Halmir good to have his mind taken off…well, everything.”

 

Oropher nodded in sympathetic understanding. “Halmir lost his mother in Doriath?”

 

“No.” There was a trace of bitterness in Felith’s voice that Oropher hadn’t expected to hear. “We might be able to make more sense of it if she had died there with everyone else.”

 

“You can talk to me about it,” Oropher gently invited her. “If you want to.”

 

Felith clasped her hands together in her lap, dark lashes resting on her cheeks as she stared down at the floor. “Dagorion breeds dogs, you see. He had a standing trade agreement with a huntsman outside of Doriath. Every year, they met to trade the huntsman’s winter furs and meat for some of that season’s hunting hounds. That was where Dagorion was when the Sons of Fëanor came. Halmir was with him. When my mother began to speak the prophecy of Doriath’s fall, Halmir’s mother Arasseth and her parents heeded the warnings. They left Doriath to find Dagorion and Halmir but they never did. Dagorion and Halmir found them instead. They had been butchered by orcs.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Oropher said softly, because he _was_ sorry, and because he didn’t know what else there was to say.

 

“It was just all so senseless,” Felith whispered. “For nothing.”

 

Without even really thinking about it, Oropher reached out and took Felith’s hand in his. She drew in a soft breath and met his eyes. Everything around them seemed to stand still, but somehow they were slowly drawing closer together until mere inches separated them. The winter sunlight shining through the window reflected off Felith’s eyes, and Oropher realised for the first time that deep within the sapphire pools were flecks of grey that shone silver in the sun. He didn’t want to stop looking at them, but Felith closed her eyes in silent invitation. Oropher’s heart quickened. He couldn’t tell what he was feeling. It was like a heady mix of fear, anticipation, and excitement all rolled into one. He leaned in further and closed his eyes too as his lips lightly touched Felith’s.

 

“Are we interrupting something?”

 

The young elves sprang apart from each other, she with a startled gasp and he with a frustrated oath muttered under his breath. Oropher looked towards the door where his little brother and his sister-in-law were standing together. “Vehiron,” Oropher said stiffly. He didn’t think for a moment that Lady Telerias had instigated this. With her hand in Vehiron’s as if she had tried to pull him away, she looked like she would rather be anywhere else.

 

“I had no idea that we had visitors,” Vehiron added, disengaging his fingers from his wife’s and stepping further into the room. He folded his arms over his chest, the sleeves of his black silk shirt blending into the unrelieved black of his tunic, and smiled at Felith. It was a smile as cold as the snow that fell outside. “How nice to see you, Mistress Felith. But I fear that you have misunderstood. Our older cousin Celeborn is your lord. Anything that you need must therefore go through him. Not my brother.”

 

“Vehiron, that’s enough,” Oropher snapped.

 

“I want nothing,” Felith said quietly. “I came to see a friend.”

 

“A friend,” Vehiron repeated. “I see.”

 

Oropher stood abruptly and turned to face his brother. “Get out.”

 

“Me?” Vehiron touched his chest in mock surprise. “But I live here. _I_ have every right to be here.”

 

“Don’t make me _make_ you leave, muindor-laes,” Oropher said. “Go. Now.”

 

Vehiron just stared silently at him with his head tilted at such a defiant angle that it reminded Oropher of the way that their mother had stood when she had been in disagreement with anyone. It was too much for Oropher and he turned away. He didn’t want to see that. He had remembered too much already for one day. He looked at Felith instead, deep sadness and wordless apology in his eyes as she stood up and approached him.

 

“I should go,” she said softly, lightly touching his arm.

 

“What a splendid idea,” Vehiron agreed from behind them.

 

“I will come to you,” Oropher quietly promised Felith. He covered her hand with his. “As soon as I can.”

 

Felith smiled sadly at him and then she left, bowing her head as she passed Vehiron and Telerias. Oropher understood why Felith didn’t want to look at Vehiron, but if she had only glanced at Telerias, she would have seen that the other elleth looked thoroughly dismayed and disappointed by Vehiron’s behaviour. The three young nobles stayed silent, the air between them heavy with tension. Only when Oropher heard the now familiar rumble of the large front door as it closed did he round on his brother with a flash of green eyes and a snarled, “How dare you?”

 

“How dare I?” Vehiron repeated incredulously. “What were you thinking by bringing _her_ into this house?”

 

“Felith isn’t the enemy!” Oropher shouted. “She survived the same horrors as we did! She saw Doriath go up in flames. She lost half of her family. She is the same as us, Vehiron. She _is_ us.”

 

“No. No. No, don’t you do that. Don’t…” Vehiron turned away and put his hands to his head in angry despair before whirling back to face his brother. “Her mother knew. Maerwen the Seer knew that the Sons of Fëanor were coming for us.”

 

“She did what she could,” Oropher began.

 

“Don’t give me that. If you have knowledge like that, why would you not scream it from every rooftop? Why would you not hammer on every door and tell everyone you could to hide, run, save themselves from what was coming?” Vehiron demanded furiously. “Why would you watch people going about their lives and just _accept_ that they weren’t listening to you? You would make them listen. You would do everything that you could!”

 

“She did do everything that she could!” Oropher snapped. “Maerwen went to Dior and Nimloth. She told them in front of their full court that danger was coming. I was there. You were there. We both heard it. Who are you really angry with, muindor-laes? Maerwen the Seer? Or yourself, when all you had to do to save anyone that you loved was listen to the warnings?”

 

Even in the depth of his anguish, Oropher hadn’t been able to use the murder of his baby niece against Vehiron. But even if he hadn’t specified that heinous act, the implication had still been there in the words that had spilled out before he’d been able to stop them. He didn’t need to hear his sister-in-law’s gasp to know that he had gone too far. He didn’t need to see a brief look of betrayal on Vehiron’s face or feel his bottom lip tear as his brother struck him. He knew that he had crossed the line. The punch made him stagger back a step, but he took it, accepting the pain, welcoming it. As Oropher straightened and met Vehiron’s enraged eyes, he tasted blood in his mouth. The brothers stared at each other, both breathing as hard as the other.

 

“Dior heard the warnings and he ignored them,” Oropher said finally. “He was arrogant and proud. Just like Ada.”

 

“Don’t,” Vehiron whispered.

 

“And just like Daerada Brandir, Daerada Gwathion, Daerada Ravondir and Daerada Elmo, and Aunt Baraves, and Cousin Galathil,” Oropher said, ticking each dead relative off on his fingers. “They were all too arrogant and proud to listen, and they died for it. Daernaneth Siliveth and Daernaneth Tatharien weren’t arrogant. But they were naïve. They would rather look the other way and wait for the trouble to pass. Daernaneth Halloth and Daernaneth Aerdis, too. And Naneth…well, she was just stupid.”

 

“You take that back!” Vehiron shouted.

 

“Naneth was stupid! She bought into the nonsense spun by fortune-tellers. She even took you to see one to find out if you were going to have a son or a daughter,” Oropher said, gesturing towards Telerias who was watching with tears in her clear green eyes. “Naneth listened to all of that. But when it really mattered, she chose to ignore real warnings of danger that came from one of the only genuine seers in the entire kingdom. That was why she died.”

 

Vehiron started to lift his hand again, but Telerias was at his side before he could draw his arm back. She pushed his hand back down and angled herself between the two brothers so that her husband would have to get past her if he really wanted to throw another punch. “Your mother took me to see a fortune-teller because she wanted us to do something fun together,” Telerias said. Her voice was shaking as she looked at Oropher. “Lady Neldiel knew that I was alone in Doriath save for Vehiron. She understood that I was scared of having a baby. She wanted to put me at ease and get to know me better.”

 

“Naneth wasn’t stupid, muindor. She was trying to be kind to her new daughter-in-law. How can you blame _our mother_ for her own death?” Vehiron whispered. “How can you blame any of them? They were afraid. We all were. You know that Dior commanded us not to act. He promised us that we would be safe. Our family died because of Dior’s failed promise and the swords of the kinslayers. Take back what you said.”

 

Oropher shook his head distantly. “No.”

 

“You have to take it back!”

 

“No.”

 

Vehiron slipped past his wife, putting her behind him, before throwing himself at his older brother with a sound of fury and pain. The two young ellyn crashed into a sideboard, and over the sound of broken glass and crystal smashing on the floor, Oropher could hear Telerias screaming at them to stop. He didn’t know if Vehiron could hear. He thought that his brother was too far past rational thought to be aware of anything but the target of his rage. Oropher didn’t care. He was happy to be that target. As he and Vehiron ended up on the floor, he put up only a half-hearted defence. Most of the blows connected with his face and upper body. He let them. When he deflected them it was only because instinct made his arms move to protect himself.

 

Suddenly, Vehiron was being lifted bodily to his feet. A hand came then to grip the back of Oropher’s collar and haul him up off the ground. He stumbled as he straightened, but a firm hand on his chest kept him upright. Celeborn, he realised, seeing an incredulous sort of anger in his older cousin’s cerulean eyes. “What is the meaning of this?” Celeborn demanded. “I do not care which of you speaks, but one of you had better do it and quickly.”

 

Vehiron was breathing hard, staring at his brother with a searing gaze. He didn’t seem inclined to speak, so Oropher just shook his head minutely. “It was nothing.”

 

“Nothing?” Celeborn repeated in disbelief. Still gripping Oropher’s collar, he gave the young elf a sharp shake. “The two of you were fighting on the floor. I saw real punches thrown. You are both a mess, and look at what you have done to Lord Círdan’s living room. You can answer me now, standing up, or you can answer me bent over my desk.”

 

A sudden wave of weariness crashed over Oropher, making his shoulders slump. He sighed and pressed the back of his hand to his stinging mouth. When he pulled it away, there was a smear of blood vivid against his pale skin. “We’re going to end up there anyway.”

 

“As you will,” Celeborn said shortly. “Vehiron, go to my study and find yourself a corner at once. Oropher, get yourself cleaned up and then do the same.”

 

Like Celeborn, Oropher had been raised as the dutiful eldest son. It wasn’t in him to argue against a command like that. Vehiron, much like Celeborn’s younger brother Galathil had been, was less wise. The presence of his wife did nothing to stifle his bravado as he began, “You can’t.”

 

“I am the head of this family now, elfling,” Celeborn replied, his deceptively mild tone underscored by a layer of steel. “I assure you that I can. So unless you want me to take your leggings down and put you across my knee right here while your wife watches, I suggest that you move.”

 

Vehiron did move, his cheeks flaming in embarrassment as he left quickly without the need for further encouragement. Celeborn watched him all the way out of the study before looking sharply at Oropher. “Why are you still standing here? Go.”

 

Oropher went too, stepping over shards of shattered crystal as he made his way across the disarray of the living room. He paused at the doorway and glanced over his shoulder to see Celeborn drawing a weeping Telerias into his arms and stroking her silver hair. A heavy feeling of guilt and shame settled uncomfortably over Oropher. He didn’t regret his aching body or his throbbing face, but he wished for his brother and his sister-in-law that he could take back the last twenty minutes of their lives. He and Vehiron didn’t fight. It wasn’t them. Even when they argued – and they had argued more in the year and a half since the Fall of Doriath than they had in the five centuries that they had lived before that – it never lasted long. One of them would take it upon themselves to say or do something funny to make the other laugh, because they despised being at odds. _That_ was who they were, or who they had been. Oropher hated what they had become. He hated what the greatest tragedy of their lives had done to them.

 

He looked in the direction of the study where Celeborn would soon expect to find him dutifully waiting in a corner opposite his brother. Almost against his will, Oropher found himself turning away. His feet carried him in the opposite direction, through the hallway of white marble and past the sunken pool. The world that he stepped into through the front door was white with sheeting snow. He followed the curve of the sweeping driveway, which under a blanket of snow was inlaid with shells and polished sea glass. The cloaked and hooded guards at the mother-of-pearl gates looked at the young lord as he passed through, but they didn’t stop him. The gates closed behind Oropher, and he broke into a run. He ran, and he didn’t look back.


	3. A White World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oropher runs where his heart leads him, but the reception that he receives is as frosty as the world around him.

Oropher ran not because he was afraid of punishment and not even because he was afraid of facing his brother. He ran because he needed to be gone. Because it was too much. He felt so close to breaking that he couldn’t have taken any more of being in Círdan’s mansion. He didn’t even know where he was running. He ran without looking back, without thought or direction as his cheeks stung with cold. The freezing air that he drew into his lungs made his chest burn. Winter’s feeble sun bouncing off the pristine snow seared his eyes, blinding him to everything around him. When he finally stopped he had to hold the heels of his hands to his eyes, pressing away his snow blindness.

 

As his vision cleared, Oropher lowered his hands and looked around. His breath turned to mist in front of him. He had come all the way to the River Sirion where on her banks sat whitewashed fishermen’s cottages with doors and windowsills painted in every colour of the rainbow. Many of the survivors of Doriath dwelt in such residences. Where entire families had been wiped out and only one or two remained, those individuals had been taken into the households of Círdan’s people. Larger families, or groups of elves who had once been strangers but had clung to each other in the aftermath of the slaughter and not let go, had been granted their own modest homes. This was where Felith lived with the remainder of her family, Oropher realised with a jolt. He had run to her.

 

The first door that the young lord knocked on was blue. He chose it because it made him think of Felith’s eyes. The elleth who came to the door stared suspiciously at him before denying that she knew anyone by the name of Felith Istuioniel. It was a blatant lie, and Oropher didn’t understand until he stepped back from the cottage and caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the windows. It made him forgive the elleth for slamming the door in his face – literally. He probably would have done the same. He crushed some snow in his handkerchief, making it damp, and cleaned up the blood that had dried on his face. Then he used his fingers to brush his windswept hair back into some semblance of order.

 

Feeling more like himself, Oropher tried again. Not at the cottage with the blue door; he had already alarmed its occupant enough for one day. He tried the one next to it, which had a green door, and then the one next to that with a yellow door. Nobody at either cottage knew a Felith Istuioniel and Oropher didn’t think that they were lying. The silver haired ellon who came to the red door of the fourth cottage hmm’d over it for so long that his wiry grey wolfhound padded to the door to check on him. Struck by sudden inspiration, Oropher hastily added, “What about a Master Dagorion? He breeds dogs.” The ellon with the silver hair brightened and made Oropher pet his dog before cheerfully revealing that Felith’s cousin Master Dagorion lived across the river.

 

Oropher extricated himself from the clutches of the ellon with the dog, and returned to the banks of the river. He looked left and right, shading his eyes as he looked for a way across. An arched bridge further upriver seemed to be the only way. A group of elflings were playing there, the smaller ones building a snow-elf and the older ones sledding down the slope and whooping excitedly as they went. None of them were from Doriath. Doriathrin elflings didn’t whoop. Not anymore.

 

On the other side of the river, the sounds of the elflings at play faded and were replaced by a dog barking. Oropher followed it with a surge of hope. It was like the feeling that had settled over him when he had smiled at the silver bell that morning before life had become horrible again. He was going to find Felith and everything was going to be all right. It had to be, he told himself. It had to be all right.

 

The dog barking led Oropher to a cottage with a pale blue door. There was a stable off to the side with room for only two horses, and a garden where a dog was being exercised by a young ellon with dark blond hair and a cloak with a fur-lined hood. That had to be Halmir, Oropher thought, his heart racing as he stopped in front of the cottage. He took a deep breath and smoothed down the front of his tunic before knocking on the door.

 

The ellon who answered it was half a head taller than Oropher and so many years older that he was easily of an age to be the young elf’s grandfather. His hair was neither golden nor brown, but instead an unremarkable in-between shade of ash blond. Most compelling were his eyes of cornflower blue. Though he was dressed plainly in dark leggings, with a sleeveless dark brown jerkin worn open over a loosely laced cream coloured shirt, the ellon wore a fine silver chain around his neck. A six-leafed _alfirin_ flower crafted of silver with a golden pearl at its centre hung from the chain.

 

“Master Alfirindir?” Oropher asked hesitantly.

 

The older ellon gazed back at him through striking blue eyes for a long moment before nodding briefly. “Indeed.”

 

“My name is Oropher Celepharnion,” Oropher began, touching his chest in greeting.

 

“I know who you are, Lord Oropher,” Alfirindir replied. “Why have you come here?”

 

There was nothing obviously hostile about the ellon in front of him, but Oropher felt his heart sink uncomfortably. “Forgive my unannounced arrival. I was hoping to see your granddaughter. Is Felith here?”

 

“She is here, but you have had a wasted journey,” Alfirindir said shortly. “You will not be seeing her. Not today, not ever. Good day to you.”

 

As the door started to swing shut, Oropher automatically stepped forward and put his foot in between the door and the frame to keep it from closing altogether. Alfirindir stopped and stared at him, disbelief registering in his blue eyes. “I don’t understand,” Oropher said, just about keeping his tone calm and steady. “If I have offended you in some way, sir…”

 

“If you have…if you have _offended_ me?” Alfirindir repeated in a dangerously low voice. He stepped outside, forcing Oropher back a pace, and he closed the door behind him before turning sharply to face the young elf. “The offence was caused when Doriath still stood, elfling. My family and I dedicated our lives to Elu Thingol and his family. For centuries before you – before even your parents were ever thought of – I served as assistant to your grandfather Loremaster Brandir while my wife was lady’s maid to your grandmother Lady Siliveth. My brother Dolion represented the Foresters Guild and advised your great-uncle the King on the preservation of the woodland. My cousin Malwien was a midwife. She delivered the so-called princes of Doriath, Celeborn, Galathil, and Celepharn; the ladies Miniel, Tadiel, and Neldiel; she attended to every one of Neldiel’s children, you included, not to mention your cousin Amdír and the future rulers Dior and Nimloth. And in my later years it was I who tutored Dior on Tol Galen, serving his father Beren while my wife attended on Lúthien. Service to be proud of, would you not say?”

 

There was no answer to that question that would not make Oropher feel like he was walking into a trap. “It is impressive,” he quietly acknowledged.

 

“Indeed. But not impressive enough,” Alfirindir said coldly. “Tell me, Lord Oropher. Was it your mother or your father who told you that my granddaughter was not good enough for you?”

 

That wasn’t the way that it had happened, Oropher wanted to protest. Neither of his parents would ever have said that. It had been Elu. It had all been Elu. But Alfirindir wasn’t willing to hear that right then. Deflated and weary, Oropher could only say, “My father informed me of the King’s decision.”

 

“I see. I wonder what your mother thought of it,” Alfirindir remarked. “Celepharn’s bloodlines were pure. I’ll give you that. But the famous _Lady_ Neldiel was at least half common. Is that not so?”

 

Oropher felt like a wild animal caught in a trap, with the snare tightening around his neck with every passing second. “Please. I just want to see Felith.”

 

“Lady Neldiel was the daughter of a fisherman’s son. Had Brandir not got himself fostered by Elu and Melian when the Dark Hunter took his parents and left him orphaned, he may have grown up to wear the stink of fish instead of jewels and finery. His daughter Neldiel, too.” Alfirindir’s blue eyes lingered scathingly on Oropher. “And her son. Nothing to say, boy? Ashamed of your family’s history?”

 

“I have nothing to be ashamed of!” Oropher snapped.

 

“And neither do I,” Alfirindir growled. He took a step closer to Oropher and gave him a hard shove to the chest. “Felith spent years believing that she wasn’t good enough for you. I tell you now that she is _too_ good for you. So you are going to turn around, go home to the grand mansion that luck and fate have put you in, and forget about her. You will never be with Felith.”

 

“No,” Oropher whispered in disbelief. He drew himself up then, and more loudly, he repeated, “No! I love her!”

 

“You love her,” Alfirindir scoffed. “Maybe you love the idea of her. But you barely know her. The arrogance of your family saw to that. Now go, little lord.”

 

“Felith and I are young but we are no longer children. You can only stand in our way for so long, Master Alfirindir,” Oropher said, standing his ground. “I want to be with your granddaughter and I believe that she wants to be with me. Why would she have come to see me this morning if that was not so?”

 

Alfirindir went very still. He stared at Oropher in silence for a long moment before slowly turning his head to look back at the cottage. “Felith visited you. Why?”

 

“Why do you think?” Oropher replied quietly. “You don’t have to believe that I love her or that she loves me. I can even understand why you wouldn’t. But at least believe that we care for one another. Please, Master Alfirindir. Give us a chance. I swear to you that I won’t hurt Felith. I will love her, protect her, give her everything, let her be anything. I can help her to be happy but I need you to just let us try.”

 

“My mind is made up, elfling,” Alfirindir said, returning his gaze to the young lord. “Accept it is over. Move on.”

 

Oropher started to shake his head, but a glint of gold at the side of the cottage caught his attention. He felt hope rise again, but it was the young ellon who had been exercising the dog in the garden when Oropher had first arrived. “Shall I set the hounds on him, Uncle Alfirindir?” the boy asked, glaring at Oropher through narrowed eyes.

 

“No, Halmir. Lord Oropher is just leaving.” Alfirindir met Oropher’s gaze. “Aren’t you?”

 

“Will you at least tell Felith that I came to see her?” Oropher asked quietly.

 

Alfirindir shook his head. “She will never know that you were here.”

 

Deflation turned to defeat. Weariness turned to exhaustion. Oropher turned and walked away from the cottage with the blue door. He felt numb inside and out, and it was nothing to do with the snow that was coming down ever faster now. He crossed the arched bridge where the elflings had been playing before. The cold had sent them running home. All trace of their presence was gone, coated by a fresh blanket of snow. On the other side of the bank, Oropher walked slowly alongside the frozen River Sirion. The winter sun had disappeared behind white snow clouds, and without it glancing off the snow, the world just looked muted. It was eerily silent. Oropher kicked the snow as he walked just to make some noise.

 

Finally, he came to a carved bench that looked out across the river. He brushed the snow off it and sat down, feeling cold seep through his clothing. For the first time since the Fall of Doriath, Oropher felt alone. Despite the absolute devastation, he had left the ruins of his former home with some family and friends left. Now they were all gone. He wasn’t going to see Felith again, not while Alfirindir was there. His best friend Herdir had been whisked away by his grandfather Alamdir, a flighty and whimsical elf with roughly braided hair who thought that travelling the world was a better cure for Herdir’s grief than dwelling in the Havens of Misery as Alamdir liked to call their new home. Oropher’s former nurse Ivoniel, who had remained a steady presence in his life and Vehiron’s even after they had no longer needed her to read them bedtime stories, had been in the care of the healers for months. She was too unstable for visitors as she grieved the death of her husband and the unborn child that she had lost in Doriath’s fall.

 

There was Amdír, Oropher supposed. But Amdír was so often away, searching for his nephews Eluréd and Elurín, who he was convinced had somehow survived the massacre of their people, that he was hardly ever around. Oropher’s great-uncle Círdan was away a lot too, dividing his time between his mansion at the Havens of Sirion and his palace on the Isle of Balar. Vehiron had turned on Oropher, and Telerias was always going to stand with her husband. Their uncle Baralin hadn’t been in Doriath at the time of its fall, but he’d not come looking for his great-nephews. Maybe he felt guilty for having not been there and he couldn’t face what was left of his family, which Oropher supposed was better than just not caring. That left Celeborn. Celeborn was lord of the Doriathrin survivors now, and so concerned with that and protecting Elwing that he had little time for anything else. Or anyone else. Oropher didn’t want to be a burden. If he had nobody, and if he was just making life harder for those around him, he didn’t see the point in surviving.

 

The River Sirion still flowed in places. It wasn’t entirely iced over. Oropher thought that it would probably hurt at first to go in, but the pain wouldn’t last long. He would quickly go numb, and then he would go into shock, and then he would just die. Three little steps. It didn’t sound so bad. That was the way that his father’s older sister Lady Alethril had died hundreds of years ago when she had fallen into an icy pool. When Oropher compared Alethril’s icy death to Celepharn’s violent murder at the hands of Celegorm the Fair, he rather thought that Alethril had been the lucky one. She might have been scared though, Oropher reflected. There was that. His father hadn’t been scared. Oropher knew that, because through his bond with Celepharn, he had felt rage and anguish and disbelief. But no fear. Still. It wasn’t like anyone was going to murder Oropher in the Havens of Sirion. Well, maybe Master Alfirindir. That made Oropher laugh. Sort of.

 

Oropher had no idea how long he sat there like that, deep in dark thought, but at some point he ceased to be alone. He looked up, sensing someone behind him. “What do you want, Vehiron?” He didn’t have to look back to know who it was.

 

“I brought your cloak and gloves,” Vehiron replied hesitantly from a few paces away. “You must be freezing.”

 

The brothers weren’t old enough to enjoy full immunity to cold. Oropher was freezing, but he hadn’t realised that until Vehiron had commented on it. He considered refusing the cloak and gloves. If he did, it would only be out of pride. Besides, he felt too tired for another argument. He just nodded wordlessly and accepted the gloves first. It hurt to curl and uncurl his fingers inside the blissfully warm and fur-lined gloves, but he did it anyway, getting feeling back into them. Wrapping his cloak around himself, he wondered idly how long it took for frostbite to set in.

 

“May I sit?” Vehiron asked.

 

“I don’t know.” Oropher lifted the hood of his cloak to protect the points of his ears from the cold. “Can you?”

 

“At the risk of starting another fight, I think ‘may I’ is correct,” Vehiron said.

 

Oropher sighed and folded his arms, watching a seabird swoop down to the river and make a valiant attempt to peck through the ice. “It is correct. I meant, has Celeborn left you physically capable of sitting?”

 

“Oh. Yes. He said that bringing you home was more important than me having my bottom warmed. That’s exactly what he said, and right where Telerias could hear, too,” Vehiron complained.

 

“I hope that he’s not sent out an entire search party,” Oropher said.

 

“No. Just me. I told him that I knew where to find you.” Vehiron hadn’t been given permission to sit, but he sat anyway, cautiously perching at the end of the bench with a safe distance between him and his brother. “You went to see Felith, didn’t you?” He chewed his lower lip as Oropher just nodded briefly. “Did you tell her that your little brother is an absolute idiot who ought to be strung up by his ankles for a week?”

 

“I didn’t see her,” Oropher said quietly.

 

“Try again before we go home,” Vehiron encouraged his brother. “She might be back by now.”

 

With another sigh that came from deep within him, Oropher tiredly rubbed his forehead. “Her family doesn’t want us to have anything to do with one another.”

 

“Because of me?” Vehiron asked guiltily. “Because of this morning?”

 

“Because they haven’t forgotten that Uncle Elu forbade us being together,” Oropher replied. “And why should they forget? It hurt them. I was stupid to think that I could just walk to their door and that they would send Felith to me with good wishes for our future. It’s over, muindor. I’ve lost her.”

 

“No, you haven’t lost her,” Vehiron promised, turning on the bench to face his brother. “You and Felith belong together.”

 

“You hate Felith,” Oropher said bleakly.

 

Vehiron lowered his eyes in shame and shook his head. “I don’t. I always liked her. I always wanted you to be with her. When Ada sent me off with Uncle Baralin for six months, it wasn’t because I had expressed a sudden desire to travel. It was because Ada feared me defending you and Felith so fiercely to Uncle Elu that I’d get myself whipped and thrown in prison.”

 

Well, that was one centuries-old mystery solved. “I thought that your travelling phase was odd,” Oropher said.

 

“Travelling is odd. I still don’t understand why Uncle Baralin loved it so.” Vehiron started to reach out with a gloved hand. He hesitated, but when his brother didn’t draw back from him, he took Oropher’s hand in his. “I am so sorry. I was horrible this morning to you and to Felith. I was just…it had been a bad night. Telerias had nightmares again. She wanted to talk about Doriath, and she cried, and I cried, and neither of us slept after that. We were already feeling awful. Then we came in and saw you with Felith, and…and I can’t even justify it.”

 

“I was horrible too,” Oropher said quietly. “I didn’t mean the things that I said.”

 

Vehiron frowned slightly as he always did when he was trying to decide how to put something into words. There were certain things about Vehiron that reminded Oropher of the people that they had lost. But not that frown. That was all Vehiron. “Well,” the younger elf said finally, when Oropher had waited patiently for him to figure it out. “I think that if you did mean any of it, or if you meant it at the time but you don’t mean it now, you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. Because Uncle Círdan told us about different stages of grief, yes? So if you’re in the anger stage right now, that’s all right. You’re allowed to be angry.”

 

“I remember him telling us about the anger stage,” Oropher agreed. “What were the other ones? Denial, acceptance…I can’t remember anything else.”

 

“Er, drinking ourselves into oblivion and gambling away the rest of our fortune?” Vehiron suggested.

 

“Drinking is good. Oblivion is not good,” Oropher said. “And be wary of the second one. You’ll need the rest of our fortune to start again whenever Uncle Círdan tires of hosting us.”

 

“ _We’ll_ need the rest of it,” Vehiron said, looking intently at his brother. “Whatever the future holds, I can’t do it without you. I don’t know if you were planning to run away or just not come home, but I need you. You’ve never not been a part of my life. Please don’t leave. Promise me.”

 

“Muindor,” Oropher began.

 

“No, promise me,” Vehiron said firmly.

 

Oropher sighed and looked away. The seabird had given up trying to break through the ice and had taken to the skies again. It wheeled beneath the clouds, crying its frustration, before sweeping away downriver. Oropher watched it out of sight. When he reluctantly returned his gaze to Vehiron, his little brother was staring at him with their father’s eyes, their mother’s unwavering determination, and a pleading sort of hope that was all his own. “All right,” Oropher conceded. He put his arm around Vehiron and pulled him to his side in a rough hug. “I promise that I won’t leave you.”

 

“And I promise not to hit you again,” Vehiron said, giving Oropher a brotherly kiss. As he drew back, his green eyes flickered with puzzlement. “Why didn’t you hit me back? You could have easily beaten me.”

 

“Not like that. You’re a better wrestler than me,” Oropher replied.

 

It would have been different if there had been blades involved, because Oropher was the better swordsman. He had always taken weaponry lessons more seriously than Vehiron, and he had spent much of his free time at arms practice with experienced elves like their father, Celeborn and Galathil, Captain Mablung, and indeed any well-respected warrior who would teach him. He had even spent a memorable year in Nevrast under Lord Glorfindel’s tutelage after the legendary warrior had finally responded to his polite but insistent letters. Glorfindel had declined to take on Vehiron, judging that Celepharn’s second son wouldn’t show the same dedication as his older brother. He had been right. While Oropher knew that Vehiron regretted missing out on that opportunity now, one hundred year old Vehiron had thanked Eru that he didn’t have to submit himself to Glorfindel’s mercies.

 

“You still could have hit me,” Vehiron said.

 

“Big brothers don’t hit their little brothers. Besides…” Oropher hesitated then, catching his breath as he tried to decide how to put his thoughts into words. “I didn’t hate it.”

 

Vehiron wrinkled his nose. _That_ was not all him. That reminded Oropher immediately of both their mother and their uncle Baralin. “You didn’t hate being punched in the face?”

 

“I hated that we were fighting. But being hit was a different kind of pain,” Oropher tried to explain. “It was as if I’d spent so long feeling inside pain that outside pain was…almost welcome, in a way.”

 

“I can understand that,” Vehiron said sympathetically. He sat back and pulled his cloak more tightly around himself with a shiver. “Do you want to go home? Celeborn can give us both some outside pain.”

 

It seemed that giving the young elves ‘outside pain’ was not at the forefront of Lord Celeborn’s mind. He was waiting for them when they got back to the mansion. Heedless of their damp hair and clothes, he pulled the two of them into his embrace and silently held them close as if he didn’t want to let them go. When he released Vehiron to Telerias, who was standing nearby with worry written all over her heart-shaped face, Celeborn held on to Oropher and spoke quietly against the younger elf’s ear. “You and I have some long discussions ahead of us, my elfling cousin.”

 

Oropher’s stomach lurched uncomfortably but he just nodded mutely. There was nothing that he could say to that. Celeborn gave him a final squeeze and let him go, and he found himself being immediately drawn into the warmth of a hug that Telerias had been saving for him. “I am sorry for my words this morning,” Oropher said softly, returning his sister-in-law’s embrace. “It was unfair.”

 

“Don’t be silly,” Telerias whispered. “I am just happy to have you home. Now, both of you must go upstairs. Hot baths are waiting and then food.”

 

“Do as she says,” Celeborn prompted the ellyn as they looked at him. “I am not going to deprive either of you of warmth and sustenance.”

 

That afternoon when the baths had been taken and the comfortingly warm food eaten, Celeborn came to Oropher’s room. Oropher was surprised. He had expected his cousin to summon him and Vehiron to the study. He had even been mentally prepared to go over the desk for a strapping, but Celeborn’s arrival there suggested that the matter was to be dealt with in a less formal way than either of the brothers had been ready for. And so it was. Celeborn offered his younger cousins the opportunity to be dealt with separately, but Oropher and Vehiron declined after exchanging a wordless glance with each other. They were not entirely unfamiliar with sharing a punishment. Besides, there was something unifying about going through it together, and it seemed like the right thing to do following the events of that morning.

 

Vehiron went first. There was no blocking out the sound of a hard hand repeatedly and methodically smacking a bare bottom, or laboured breaths and tearful gasps that finally turned to sobs. Aside from the occasional brief glance up to check that Vehiron was coping and that Celeborn wasn’t being too hard on him, Oropher stood back with his arms folded and his eyes on the floor. He didn’t particularly want to watch his little brother being soundly spanked. He didn’t think that Vehiron would have started out wanting that either. Although, by the time that thought entered Oropher’s mind, the spanking was entering its eighth minute, Vehiron’s entire backside was a stunning shade of scarlet, and he was kicking his feet and howling so much that he probably didn’t have room in his head to think about how attentive his audience was.

 

When it was over, Celeborn let Vehiron lie where he was for a couple of minutes to cry. Only when the young elf was calmer and ready to move did Celeborn help him to stand and put his clothing to rights. He drew the young elf into his arms and murmured words of comfort and forgiveness to him before sending him across the room to Oropher. “You’re all right, muindor-laes,” Oropher whispered, hugging his brother tightly. “Or you will be. You know that it won’t last.”

 

Vehiron nodded miserably against the older ellon’s shoulder. “I suppose so.”

 

“Do you want to go and rest now?” Oropher asked kindly. He wouldn’t be upset if Vehiron stayed for his punishment – that had been the intended plan, after all – but if his brother was tired and had different needs, those took priority now.

 

“Yes, please,” Vehiron whispered.

 

Oropher met Celeborn’s clear blue eyes over his brother’s shoulder. “Does he have to stay?”

 

“No,” Celeborn said softly. “Go to bed, Vehiron. You may take dinner in your room this evening and spend tonight at ease. I will see you in the morning.”

 

Vehiron nodded quietly and slipped out of the room, scrubbing tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. Oropher watched him leave. When the door had closed behind him, the young lord looked reluctantly at Celeborn. His older cousin steadily returned his gaze, and asked, “Are you ready?”

 

“I’m ready,” Oropher said quietly, and he took a step toward Celeborn.


	4. Consequences and Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oropher faces up to the consequences for his mistakes, and hears words that may finally set him on the path to healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that as per the story tags, this chapter contains a spanking scene.

“Do you wish to say anything before we begin?”

 

Oropher tried hard not to be annoyed. Well, he made something of an attempt. He _was_ annoyed and he couldn’t help that. Vehiron had told Celeborn that he was sorry, but only after six and a half minutes of having his bare backside roasted by their older cousin’s hard hand. He certainly hadn’t been _made_ to say it before they had even started. Even if Oropher was the eldest, he didn’t see why he should say it. Still, if that was what Celeborn wanted. “I am very sorry for fighting with my brother and running away,” he said stiffly. There. And the first half of it was true. He regretted coming to blows with Vehiron. But he wasn’t going to mean any apology that he gave for his emotions getting the better of him and making him flee. He hadn’t been able to help that.

 

Something flickered in Celeborn’s clear blue eyes, a spark of bittersweet recognition twinned with a keen sense of loss that made Oropher wonder which dead friend or family member he had just reminded his cousin of. “Thank you for that, but I was not looking for apology,” Celeborn said dryly. “Genuine or otherwise. I meant that if there is anything that you wish to talk about, we may do so. We don’t have to begin until you are ready.”

 

_Oh._ Celeborn wanted him to talk about his feelings. That was even less appealing than saying sorry on someone else’s terms, so Oropher shook his head and tried not to let his distaste show. “I said that I’m ready now.”

 

Celeborn gave the younger elf a long and searching look. Oropher just looked back in impassive silence, his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders stubbornly squared. He really didn’t want to talk anymore; not about what had happened with Vehiron, not about his encounter with Alfirindir, not about his dark thoughts, not about any of it. He just wanted this to be over. He had never known Celeborn to be the sort of elf to push someone into something that they didn’t want, and sure enough, his cousin accepted his desire not to talk with a brief nod and a step back to the settee where Vehiron’s punishment had taken place. Despite Oropher’s eagerness to get the matter dealt with, he suddenly felt like butterflies were flitting about in his stomach.

 

From a very young age, Oropher had always been of the opinion that punishment was something to be avoided at all costs. He felt that very little in life was worth being put across an elder’s knee or hearing a dread-inducing order to bend over. That just made sense to him. It seemed obvious. Wanting to behave well was part of that, but not all of it. He really didn’t enjoy a single aspect of being in trouble. The punishment was embarrassing and painful, the after effects were uncomfortable, and he absolutely _hated_ how small being told off made him feel. It was all such a horrible experience for Oropher that he only rarely got in trouble for the same thing more than once. And all of that made perfect sense to him as well, but it didn’t seem to make sense to everyone. Vehiron, for example, was of the opinion that punishment was an annoying but fair price to pay for something that had been fun or satisfying at the time. That had been a source of huge frustration to Oropher in the past, because that way of thinking was so unaligned with his own that he just couldn’t comprehend it.

 

There was no doubt at all in Oropher’s mind that that devil-may-care attitude had been passed to Vehiron from their mother. He still remembered being soundly spanked by his father for a childhood misadventure, and his mother cuddling him after and saying, “Well, I know that you got sticky fingerprints all over your clothes and the painting from Aunt Baraves, but darling, didn’t you enjoy eating half a jar of honey?” Oropher knew that Neldiel had been trying to make him better in the only way that she had known how, but at the time it had just made him feel even worse. The scolding and the smacking that Celepharn had given him, and the idea that he had shamed himself and disappointed his father, had far outweighed any honey-related happiness. He hadn’t even wanted to look at honey ever again. It had upset him that Neldiel hadn’t understood that. Later, he had decided that she must have realised, because she had never again tried to impose that way of thinking on him. Oropher had been grateful for that, because he knew that it had been difficult for Neldiel to see it from his point of view. That wasn’t her fault, just like it wasn’t Oropher’s fault that he had never understood his mother’s approach to trouble, or his younger brother’s. They had never been inclined to change it though, so for his own sanity all Oropher could do was breathe out, let it go, and thank Eru for the self-preservation that he had been blessed with.

 

Celeborn had seated himself, and as Oropher returned from his musings to realise that, he quickly pushed his leggings down to just above his knees. He did not want Celeborn doing it for him. He was just about to wave goodbye to most of his dignity; if there was even a scrap that he could hold onto, he intended to do just that. He wordlessly placed himself across his cousin’s lap, angled slightly so that he could rest his arms on the firm cushion of the settee. The back of his tunic came up, folded carefully to the middle of his back so that he was fully bared.

 

The spanking began with half-strength smacks that Oropher knew were intended to warm him up ahead of what was likely going to be a memorable discipline session. He didn’t react beyond automatically blinking in surprise when the first swat landed to the centre of his right cheek. It always surprised him even when he knew that it was coming. The pace of the punishment remained steady, with Celeborn’s hand connecting sharply with Oropher’s bottom every second and a half. He kept the half-strength smacks up for a full minute, and only then did they become noticeably firmer and much more solid.

 

Wishing that his hair was loose so that he could shake it down to hide his face, Oropher grimaced and just turned his face away. He stared at the floor and concentrated on breathing calmly and evenly as the spanking entered its second minute, and then its third. He tried to remember how long it had taken Vehiron to start gasping and whimpering. Probably around this point, now that he thought about it. That was fair enough. Celeborn was giving him no quarter now. Every single smack was full strength, delivered expertly and with the intention of lighting a fire that the unfortunate young elf would feel for a long time.

 

Oropher released a quiet sigh of misery and stopped paying attention to each individual minute. They were just blurring into one now. What had started out as warmth soon turned to a fierce heat that covered his entire backside. The sensitive curve between bottom cheeks and thighs blazed spectacularly. Squeezing his eyes closed, Oropher turned his face back and pressed it into his arms with a shaky breath.

 

Eventually, the sound of Celeborn’s hand cracking down became almost…hesitant. The repeated swats hadn’t necessarily gone back to half strength, but the time that passed between each one was longer and longer until finally, Celeborn stopped altogether. His left hand was cool on Oropher’s back and his right hand rested warmly against his cousin’s thigh. A long silence stretched between the two ellyn, broken only by a couple of barely audible breaths from Celeborn almost as if he wasn’t sure what to say.

 

“Well, I suppose that you and I are finished here,” he said then, in a soft undertone. “You may stand when you are ready.”

 

Oropher declined the recovery time that Vehiron had taken. He stood up immediately, taking a couple of steps back from the settee before pulling his clothing into order. Then he stood straight with his head up and his hands clasped behind his back. He wasn’t sure if he should apologise again. He had already been genuinely sorry for fighting with his brother, and he didn’t think that he could sound any more sincere about having run off. On balance, it didn’t seem like there was much point in saying sorry when it was just another motion to go through.

 

“I gave you no less than your brother,” Celeborn remarked.

 

There was no need for him to elaborate. Oropher knew exactly what his cousin was insinuating. “I have always taken punishments better than Vehiron,” he replied dismissively.

 

“Yes, I am aware of that,” Celeborn acknowledged. “This was not my first time in charge of your discipline. It has taken less time and effort in the past to have you in tears.”

 

Oropher stood still, quiet as he considered that observation and his response to it. “Was the purpose of what just happened to make me cry?”

 

“No.” There was a touch of not-often-heard exasperation in Celeborn’s lilting voice. “I am surprised that it was not a natural reaction.”

 

“Don’t you ever get tired of crying?” Oropher asked quietly. “Even when you want to?”

 

Something immediately softened in Celeborn. The brief flicker of irritation was replaced by understanding as he rose fluidly and rested his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “That I can accept. As long as you have not scratched your hands or bitten your lip to avoid shedding tears, we will say nothing more about it.”

 

Oropher dutifully parted his lips and held his hands out. “I’m fine.”

 

“Very well,” Celeborn conceded. “That was still a hard punishment. May I at least give you comfort?”

 

It made Oropher feel sorry and even a little guilty that Celeborn had felt that he needed to ask. “I would like that,” he said softly.

 

Celeborn closed the distance between them and drew the younger elf into his embrace. He held his cousin tightly, gently guiding Oropher’s head down onto his shoulder. “Don’t ever think that you can’t have it.”

 

“Thank you,” Oropher whispered. Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood, he added, “Just because I didn’t cry, it doesn’t mean that you didn’t make your point. You did. Exceptionally well.”

 

“I appreciate the praise, my elfling cousin,” Celeborn said dryly.

 

Praise was not quite what Oropher had been going for, but he decided to let the older ellon have his moment. “You’re welcome.”

 

With a low chuckle, Celeborn briefly tightened his hold on Oropher before drawing back to look him in the eye. “Let us move on from that unpleasant matter. I understand that your attempt to see Felith this morning did not go as planned. Vehiron told me while you were bathing,” he added, by way of short explanation. “Do not be angry with your brother. He was worried about you.”

 

“I’m not angry,” Oropher said distantly. “I just don’t see any point in worrying. It is what it is.”

 

“Maybe,” Celeborn murmured. “Who is the head of Felith’s family?”

 

“Her grandfather Alfirindir, I suppose,” Oropher replied. “Or…no, her great-grandfather Raethir survived too. But I didn’t see him today. I only saw Master Alfirindir.”

 

“Raethir and Alfirindir,” Celeborn repeated. “Very well. If you wish it so, I will arrange to meet with them and petition them on your behalf.”

 

For a moment, Oropher imagined himself saying yes. Raethir and Alfirindir might be in charge of Felith’s family, but Celeborn was the head of the House of Elmo. Even though both of those ellyn were centuries older than Celeborn, surely they couldn’t say no to Lord Elmo’s eldest grandson and the Lord of the Sindar. It was such a tempting thought that Oropher almost agreed. _Almost._ Instead he caught himself before he could. “Being of the nobility caused this mess in the first place, Celeborn,” he sighed. “I don’t think that taking advantage of my position to make Felith’s grandfathers acquiesce is the right thing to do. It would make them think even worse of me than they already do.”

 

“Being tenth in line to a throne that no longer exists caused this mess,” Celeborn clarified.

 

“And you would think that tenth was far enough away that it shouldn’t have made a difference who I chose to be with,” Oropher complained. “I could maybe understand it better if I had been Uncle Elu’s only nephew from Ada, but he had Vehiron too.”

 

“Uncle Elu was exceedingly cautious, and it led him to be unreasonable in many ways,” Celeborn murmured. “It may not have mattered whether you were tenth or twentieth in line to the throne.”

 

Oropher nodded reluctantly. That was easy enough to believe. “Please don’t speak to Felith’s family for me. I appreciate that you are willing to try. I really do. I think that if Felith and I are to ever be together, it can’t be because her family have been ordered into accepting it. Not unless that order comes from Felith herself, and I don’t feel that she is able to give it just yet.”

 

“I won’t say a word,” Celeborn promised. “But I want you to know that I believe in my heart that you and Felith are meant to be together.”

 

“Well,” Oropher sighed, “it’s good of you to say that.”

 

“I say it because I mean it. I know that these obstacles seem insurmountable to you in this moment, but I promise you that they are not.” Celeborn put his hand on Oropher’s shoulder and gave it a gently reassuring squeeze. “You and Felith are not the only couple to face such trials. Do you think that Galadriel and I did not come up against opposition in the face of our love?”

 

“From Uncle Elu?” Oropher asked slowly.

 

“Yes, from Uncle Elu.” A ghost of a pained smile flitted across Celeborn’s lips. “And vocally from my mother, though even she came to accept Galadriel and secretly admire her strength by the end. And when you think of couples who were always destined to be together, surely your own parents must come to mind. They certainly didn’t have an easy road to being together.”

 

“I have heard that Uncle Elu forbade their relationship until Daerada Elmo intervened on their behalf,” Oropher said. “Why did Uncle Elu not approve of them? Was it because Naneth’s grandparents on her father’s side were born common? Master Alfirindir threw _that_ in my face today.”

 

Celeborn hesitated for a moment, and then he covered it by straightening his elegantly patterned blue-on-silver tunic. Even though, Oropher thought idly, there had been nothing wrong with it. “Uncle Elu felt that Celepharn and Neldiel were not suited to one another,” Celeborn said finally. “He thought that they should look elsewhere for matches. But you are right; Daeradar threw his support behind them. Celepharn was his beloved youngest grandson, and Daeradar had always been fond of Neldiel. He thought that they would be good for one another. As we all know, he was right. Even Uncle Elu had to concede that eventually. Once your parents got past Elu, and the separations that were of their own making, they had their happy ending. As I am sure that you and Felith will.”

 

Something else had caught Oropher’s attention, so he could only nod distractedly to Celeborn’s last comment. “What separations of their own making?”

 

“Celepharn called off the relationship once and Neldiel twice. Of course, one of those times was because she had dream-argued with Celepharn and she forgot that it hadn’t actually happened,” Celeborn said with a wistful smile.

 

Oropher didn’t smile. He couldn’t. He turned away, and for the first time since that awful day had started he felt the sharp threat of tears pricking his eyes. “I had no idea.”

 

“Why should you?” Celeborn asked gently. “It was before you were born.”

 

“Because they were my parents and I should know things about them. I should have asked them more questions and found out more about them, about their lives,” Oropher said bitterly. “That’s important and now it’s too late because they’re gone.”

 

Celeborn went to his younger kinsman and put an arm around his shoulders, drawing him close to his side. “Ask me your questions. Celepharn was my best friend and my gwador. I would have died for him from the moment that he was born. And Neldiel, she was like the little sister that Galathil and I never asked for but whom we loved all the same. I can tell you about your parents, Oropher. In fact, I…” Celeborn wasn’t the kind of elf who hesitated often, but he did it then for the second time in as many minutes before softly saying, “There is something that I can tell you now about them. Something that I think it is important for you to know today.”

 

“What is it?” Oropher asked, curious and even a little wary as he turned to face his cousin.

 

Sapphire eyes met emerald, and Celeborn took a deep breath. “Three days before Doriath was attacked, Celepharn and Neldiel came to see me. They were making provisions to flee the kingdom.”

 

Oropher suddenly went very still. “What?”

 

“They decided to heed the warnings spoken by Maerwen the Seer,” Celeborn quietly clarified. “They were going to leave.”

 

“But I don’t understand,” Oropher said. “How? When? With…with us?”

 

“Of course with you,” Celeborn said. “With you, and with Vehiron and Telerias, and your little niece.”

 

“But we knew nothing of it,” Oropher protested. “Did they not trust us?”

 

Celeborn sighed deeply, and he gave the younger elf’s shoulder a final squeeze before clasping his hands behind his back in the way that he did before he was about to speak at length. “It was not a matter of trust, Oropher. They wished to protect you. Understand that they spent fourteen hundred years under Elu’s rule and barely four under Dior’s. Four years is not enough time to shake the habits of fourteen centuries. They were used to Elu’s response to defiance and dissent. We all were. I trust that you remember your lessons with Lord Brandir?”

 

“By the laws of Doriath, their departure from the kingdom after Dior had ordered his nobles not to respond to Maerwen’s prophecy would have constituted treason,” Oropher said slowly.

 

“Just so,” Celeborn agreed. “Celepharn and Neldiel did not know Dior – Dior-as-king – well enough to know how he would punish treason. They did not tell you, or Vehiron or Telerias, because they wanted to protect the three of you from punishment should their plans be discovered. If it came to it, they wanted to be able to say truthfully ‘our children did not know about this, they cannot be held accountable for our crimes’.”

 

“Where did they intend to go?” Oropher asked bleakly.

 

“They intended to come here,” Celeborn replied, his tone one of deep sorrow. “They were going to seek sanctuary at the Havens of Sirion.”

 

Oropher laughed bitterly because he didn’t know what to say, and the alternative to laughter was crying. His parents had planned to come to the very place that their family had fled to when Doriath had fallen. For the sake of a few days, they could have escaped. They could have all been at the Havens together if Celepharn and Neldiel had executed their plan. Grief and disbelief threatened to overwhelm Oropher. He put his head in his hands, his mind whirling. Why hadn’t they just left? What had delayed them? The most horrific thought came to him, and he looked up again, feeling ill. “Was it my fault, Celeborn? Mine and Vehiron’s? We went hunting the day before the attack and we camped out that night, so we didn’t…we weren’t there until it was too late. Did we delay them?”

 

“Oh, no, it wasn’t your fault,” Celeborn promised vehemently. “Celepharn and Neldiel just weren’t ready. Nobody knew how quickly the Sons of Fëanor would come. Your parents thought that they had time and they didn’t. That’s all it was.”

 

Shaken, Oropher exhaled and nodded quietly, reaching for composure. “Why did they come to you that day?”

 

“For advice about their plan, mostly,” Celeborn replied. “But when the three of us finished discussing it, Neldiel left to find Galadriel and ‘annoy her for the last time’. Celepharn stayed behind with me, and we talked at length.”

 

The mention of Neldiel annoying Galadriel had made Oropher smile in sad fondness. He thought that it sounded about right; his mother and their cousin by marriage had had what he could only describe as a love-hate relationship. “Can you tell me what you talked about with my father?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

 

“Some of it remains between me and an elf I loved like a brother,” Celeborn said quietly. “You understand that?”

 

Oropher was dismayed to feel a brief flash of jealousy that Celeborn held a part of Celepharn that he, Celepharn’s eldest son and heir, did not. It was gone almost as quickly as it had come, and the young elf nodded hastily before Celeborn could decide not to tell him anything at all. “Of course. I understand that.”

 

“Celepharn knew that the plan to leave Doriath was not going to be successful,” Celeborn began quietly.

 

“My father didn’t have foresight,” Oropher said slowly.

 

“That he did not. But he was as pragmatic an elf as I have ever known, and he did not view the escape plan with the same hope and optimism as Neldiel did,” Celeborn replied. “Still, he was willing to try for her and for his children even though in his heart he believed that it would end badly whether that was at the hands of the Sons of Fëanor or under arrest by the King’s guard. And so, Celepharn asked me to make him a promise.”

 

“What promise?” Oropher whispered.

 

“He asked me to promise if anything should happen to him that I look after his sons,” Celeborn replied, meeting his young cousin’s emerald eyes. “That I care for them and love them as if they were my own, and that I help them when they were in need if he was unable to be there. It grieved me to hear Celepharn speak like that, but I knew that he was in earnest and for that reason it was the easiest promise that I have ever made. I made it without hesitation, Oropher. In part because I loved Celepharn, but in even greater part because I loved you and I loved your brother.”

 

Oropher could only manage a wordless nod before turning away to come to terms not just with what Celeborn had told him but with the feeling that was gently washing over him like waves lapping at the shore. It was love. A love that he hadn’t felt since his bonds with Celepharn and Neldiel had been torn asunder, the love of a father and a mother that came from beyond the grave. He couldn’t take it. Finally overwhelmed, he sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands with a stifled sob. “Why did you tell me this?”

 

“Because these are the darkest days of your short life,” Celeborn said, kneeling next to Oropher and pulling him into his arms. “And because if you ever feel that you cannot survive them, I want you to remember that you are not alone. I made a promise to your father, and I make it to you now that you are wanted, needed, loved. You don’t mean a single ounce less to me than your brother, or Elwing, or Amdír, or Eluréd and Elurín wherever they may be. I have room in my heart for all of you. I can be present for all of you. And you are never a burden. _Never._ Do you understand me?”

 

Oropher dropped his hands down from his face with an exhausted, teary breath. “I want to,” he whispered.

 

“Very well,” Celeborn said gently. He pressed a kiss to the top of his younger cousin’s head. “We’ll get you there. It’s going to be all right. You’re going to be all right. I promise.”

 

It had been an agonisingly long and difficult day, and the moments that followed blurred in Oropher’s mind so that he never did remember them clearly. One moment he was kneeling on the floor wrapped in Celeborn’s strong embrace, and the next he was waking up in bed and his room was dim with the onset of evening. He supposed that Celeborn had helped him into more comfortable clothing, because the clothes that he had put on that morning were replaced with looser leggings and a short-sleeved night tunic. Oropher supposed also that he must have cried some more after Celeborn had made his promise, because his eyes were stinging. He lay in bed for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, and his mind come to terms with the lingering ache across his backside, when he noticed a figure at his bedside.

 

“Vehiron,” he said softly, automatically sitting up and immediately regretting it.

 

“I’m sorry that I woke you,” Vehiron whispered.

 

Oropher grimaced and settled down on his side, propping himself up on one forearm. “It’s fine, but whispering is redundant now that I’m awake. Is something wrong?”

 

“Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to see you. Telerias suggested waiting until morning, but…” Vehiron frowned slightly, and then he perched on the edge of his brother’s bed with one leg curled under himself to keep the weight off his still-tender bottom. “How did it go with Celeborn?”

 

“I know that you haven’t forgotten already what it’s like to have a session over Cousin Celeborn’s lap, so don’t tell me that’s the only reason you came here,” Oropher retorted.

 

“Fine. It’s not the only reason but it’s courteous to ask.” Vehiron hesitantly slipped his hand into the pocket of the gold-embroidered silk dressing robe that he was wearing over his own nightclothes. “This is why I came. I wanted to give this back to you. It fell on the floor this morning when we were…you know, fighting.”

 

There was a soft jingle, and Oropher sat up with an indrawn breath as he realised what it was. “The silver bell,” he gasped, ignoring the ache left by Celeborn’s hand. “Felith’s bell…”

 

“Take it,” Vehiron prompted his brother.

 

Oropher started to reach for the bell, but then he withdrew his hand and shook his head. “There’s no point. Looking at it is only going to remind me of what I can’t have.”

 

“What you can’t have right now, yes,” Vehiron agreed. “But Felith gave you this bell to remind you that there is still hope. You have to hold on to that, muindor.”

 

_Hope._ Oropher thought back to the moment that he had first heard the jingling of the bell. He thought of the way that it had made him smile, and how he had allowed himself to believe for the first time in a long time that there really did exist some hope and light in the world. “Perhaps…” He took a deep breath and reached out again, taking the bell from his brother. “Perhaps I could keep the bell. Then when Felith and I are finally together, I could give it back to her. That might be a nice thing to do.”

 

“You should do that,” Vehiron said, smiling in gentle encouragement.

 

Oropher cradled the bell in the palm of his hand as if it was as precious as any of the family jewels that they had rescued from Doriath, and then he gave it a careful ring. The silvery jingle made him catch his breath and smile. He looked up and met his brother’s eyes. “Thank you.”

 

Vehiron just shook his head ever so slightly, dismissing the thanks. As Oropher reverently put the bell on the bedside table, Vehiron discarded his dressing robe and climbed over his brother to burrow under the warm blankets. “When I decided to come and see you, Telerias said that she would see me in the morning,” he said by way of explanation, as Oropher raised an eyebrow at him. “She doesn’t mind if I stay here tonight. As long as you don’t mind.”

 

“I’ve never minded,” Oropher said, lying down again with a sigh as he faced his younger brother through the dim light.

 

“Doesn’t this remind you of Doriath?” Vehiron asked softly. “After we had got in trouble with Ada, or Daerada Brandir, or Aunt Baraves, and we would curl up in bed and fall asleep?”

 

“After _you_ had got in trouble and I’d let myself get caught up in it trying to make sure that you didn’t do anything too foolish,” Oropher corrected.

 

“That too,” Vehiron agreed readily. “In a way it’s…I don’t know. Nice is probably the wrong word.”

 

“Nice is definitely the wrong word,” Oropher said dryly.

 

Vehiron reached out from under the covers to flick his older brother’s ear, but Oropher saw it coming and batted his hand away. “You have to know what I mean,” Vehiron protested. “Obviously it isn’t nice to be punished. But after, when you’re sore and sleepy, and you know that whoever made you feel that way did it because they care enough to spend that time on you, and you just lie in bed talking nonsense until you fall asleep…that’s nice.”

 

“Go to sleep, strange elfling,” Oropher murmured.

 

“Don’t say that. I’m only-”

 

Oropher promptly pressed his hand over the other ellon’s mouth. “Seven years and ninety-four and a half days younger than me. I know. You’ve spent your whole life saying that as if it actually makes a difference to me.” He removed his hand as Vehiron lightly nipped his finger, and looked fondly at his little brother. “I can accept that it isn’t the worst feeling in the whole world. But let’s not make a habit of it.”

 

“All right,” Vehiron agreed.

 

“All right,” Oropher echoed softly, curling his arm around his brother as they closed their eyes to drift off to sleep together.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Oropher concludes his tale of the bells, he reflects on both the past and the present, on all that he lost and all that he has gained.

“And that is why we hang silver bells at Yule,” Oropher said softly.

 

In the telling of his story, the King had realised that there were some parts of it that he could not burden his son with. The story had become abbreviated, though he thought that it had been no less meaningful for that. Thranduil had heard about his mother gifting his father with the silver bell, the fight between brothers, and their later reconciliation in the snow. With wide eyes he had listened to the description of the punishments – and the comfort – delivered to his father and his uncle by his dear cousin Celeborn, and he had smiled to hear about Oropher’s renewed hope as Vehiron had returned the bell to him. The confrontation between Oropher and Alfirindir had been pared down for Thranduil. Despite Oropher’s personal feelings towards his wife’s grandfather, Alfirindir was still family; the King had no desire to turn Thranduil against an elf who was not there to defend himself. As for the dark thoughts that had plagued the much younger Oropher on the banks of the River Sirion, Thranduil heard nothing of those. Maybe one day far in the future, but now, when Thranduil was an elfling with a firm grip on youth and innocence, it was not the right time.

 

Thranduil sat in silence at Oropher’s side as the ending of the story forced him to come back to the present. He looked around slowly and his eyes lingered on the festive garland that adorned the mantelpiece. “Do you still have _the_ silver bell?”

 

“See for yourself,” Oropher prompted him.

 

The mantelpiece was shoulder high on Oropher, so while reaching up to casually ring the bells was easy enough for Thranduil, examining them closely required him to stand on the tips of his toes. Oropher closed his eyes and listened to the faint jingling as his son went and methodically looked through each one until finally, Thranduil gasped softly. “This one! It has your initial on it, and Nana’s. Is this it?”

 

Oropher opened his eyes and smiled. “Yes. We had it engraved in Lindon when we were finally together.”

 

Thranduil stared at the bell in awe, but then he returned to the settee and knelt at Oropher’s side. “I’m so sorry, Ada,” he whispered, leaning in to hug his father.

 

“For what, my elfling?” Oropher asked gently.

 

“For everything that you had to go through,” Thranduil said, his voice muffled against the warm brocade of the King’s tunic. “Doriath. Sirion. Losing so many people and not even being allowed to love Nana. I can’t imagine it.”

 

“I hope that you are always able to say that,” Oropher said quietly, holding his son close. “I never want your heart to hurt.”

 

There was a suspicious shimmer in Thranduil’s silver-blue eyes as he drew back to look at his father. “It’s just so unfair. Aran Elu should have wanted you to be happy, and Master Alfirindir should have wanted Nana to be happy. If you love someone, that’s what you want for them.”

 

“Thranduil,” Oropher said, with a loving laugh. “My elfling, all is well. Everything turned out just fine. Your nana and I have spent many happy years together, and our lives became brighter still when we had you. I promise that you don’t have to be sad for us.”

 

“I’m sad for past you and past Nana,” Thranduil replied stubbornly, dashing tears from his eyes.

 

Oropher smiled fondly and pressed a kiss to his child’s brow. “Very well, my tender-hearted son.”

 

Sighing deeply, Thranduil sat back on his heels. He immediately sat up again with a grimace of distaste for Elder Angoliel’s ruler. “What happened at your wedding? Did you have to keep Uncle Vehiron away from Uncle Halmir? Did Celeborn shout at Alfirindir?”

 

“Nobody came to blows at the wedding. It was a very civilised affair,” Oropher said dryly. “Don’t bother Halmir about a throwaway comment that he made two and a half thousand years ago, laes-nín. He was very young when all of this happened, and he was grieving as we all were. Besides, he saw Alfirindir behaving a certain way and he simply followed the example set by a much older relative. Halmir felt very badly about it years later, and he couldn’t apologise enough. You know that he and I are good friends now. As are Vehiron and your nana,” the King added as an afterthought, supposing that he had better cover all bases, “so don’t go bothering Vehiron about the things that he said either.”

 

“I won’t. But what about Alfirindir?” Thranduil asked slowly. He paused then, wrinkling his nose in confusion. “Is it disrespectful of me not to call him Daerada Alfirindir?”

 

“You have never known him,” Oropher replied gently. “Call him whatever feels comfortable.”

 

“I’ve never known your parents but I call them Daerada Celepharn and Daernana Neldiel. I’ve never known Nana’s parents but I call them Daerada Istuion and Daernana Maerwen. I call _your_ grandparents Daerada Gwathion and Daernana Tatharien, and Daerada Brandir and Daernana Siliveth.” Thranduil lifted his hand to his mouth and bit the side of his thumb nail, looking troubled. “I should call him Daerada Alfirindir, shouldn’t I?”

 

“Well, laes-nín, I suppose it’s fair to say that we don’t talk about him quite as much as we do the others,” Oropher said, pulling his son in for a reassuring hug. “It makes sense that you would feel like you don’t know him as well. How about you have a think and decide later what you want to do?”

 

“I’ll do that,” Thranduil agreed. He gasped then and drew back as a different thought occurred to him. “Oh! You know what it’s like to be smacked by Cousin Cel.”

 

Oropher let out a silent breath of relief. He didn’t much care for the topic of conversation that Thranduil had settled on, but he was grateful that he had been spared the even more difficult subject of Alfirindir, who was Felith’s story to tell more than his. “Yes, Thranduil, I know what it is like to be smacked by Cousin Cel,” the King said mildly. “We were all young once.”

 

“Is that how you got so good at it?” Thranduil asked admiringly. “Because Celeborn is _really_ good at it.”

 

“One does not become ‘good’ at it by being on the receiving end,” Oropher replied, eyeing his adolescent elfling. “Eru saw fit to bless me with a son who has given me many opportunities to practice. You may congratulate yourself for helping me achieve mastery in this area, laes-nín.”

 

“That’s not funny,” Thranduil complained.

 

“Fair enough,” Oropher agreed. He watched his son sigh and look down, deep in thought. Just as he was about to ask what was going on in Thranduil’s head, the Prince took a very deep breath and then placed himself face down across his father’s lap. Oropher was so startled that he automatically lifted his hands up and away from his son. “Thranduil, what are you doing?”

 

“I’ve put myself over your lap,” Thranduil said, sounding resigned.

 

“Yes, I can see what you have done. _Why_ have you have done it?” Oropher asked incredulously.

 

“Because you’re going to smack me for what happened in lessons with Aiwen and the ink. You’re here, I’m here, we were talking about that sort of thing, and I was so close to you that I was practically over your lap anyway,” Thranduil said unhappily. “We might as well just get it over and done with. Then I won’t have to spend all evening thinking about what’s going to happen at bedtime.”

 

It was elfling logic but it made sense to Oropher. “Get up, Thranduil.”

 

The Prince lifted his head. “What?”

 

“I said get up,” Oropher repeated, lightly smacking his son’s thigh to make him move.

 

No more encouragement than that was necessary. Thranduil hastily pushed himself up and stared doubtfully at his father. “Did you change your mind?”

 

“I suppose I did. Call it an early Yule gift.” Oropher sighed as his son just gave him a suspicious look. “Thranduil, I am aware that some parts of the silver bell story were difficult for you to hear. You have already been upset, and I will not give you additional punishment in such circumstances. Aside from being irresponsible and thoughtless, it would be cruel. I like to think that I am not any of those things, and I certainly try to be reasonable. So, here we are. The lines from Elder Angoliel and the spanking that she gave you will stand.”

 

“No more punishment?” Thranduil asked. “Not now and not at bedtime?”

 

“Not now and not at bedtime. But,” Oropher added firmly, “I expect better much conduct from now on. I will be paying close attention to the reports from your teachers, and you will find yourself right back over my knee if you misbehave in lessons again. Are we clear?”

 

“Yes, Ada,” Thranduil promised.

 

Oropher nodded and stood up, pulling the elfling to his feet as well. “Very well. Let’s go. I have had quite enough of this office for one day.”

 

“I love when you say that,” Thranduil said delightedly.

 

“So do I,” Oropher confided, slinging his arm around his son’s neck to pull him close.

 

Father and son passed through the decked out halls of the palace until they reached the private wing where the royal family dwelt in spacious suites and apartments that overlooked the forest. It was to the communal living area that Oropher took Thranduil, following the sounds of voices and laughter. They passed by the door to the dining room and stepped into the lounge. A beautiful fir tree stood in one corner of the room, adorned with frosted pinecones, birds carved of finely veined white marble, and glass ornaments in silver and red. Hung around the boughs of the tree and across the ceiling were pearls, larimar, and opals that had been softened and spun into the finest and most delicate of threads in an art first perfected by Queen Melian of Doriath. The gemstone threads sparkled in the last of the day’s winter sun that streamed through the window, and in the flames that danced in the fireplace where a garland of evergreens, berries, and silver bells hung across the mantelpiece just like in Oropher’s office.

 

Seated in the middle of the largest settee was Felith herself. She was clad in a gown of darkest forest green, the bodice embellished with silver thread and tiny emerald chips that glittered when she moved. To her left were Thoroniel and Aiwen, the golden haired daughters of her cousin Halmir, with their brother Fileg sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of them. To the right of the Queen were her nieces by marriage, willowy Lady Lanthiriel and the petite Lady Elanoreth. Their mother, Oropher and Vehiron’s older half-sister Lady Calien, perched elegantly on the arm of the settee next to them, in a gown of silver-trimmed burgundy with her dark hair caught in a net of black mesh and rubies. All of them were watching Vehiron as he held court in front of the fireplace.

 

Off to the side of the room at a round table of polished mahogany was Calien’s husband Lord Calasdir. He was immersed in a game of cards with their eldest Lord Talagan and their youngest Lord Gelinnas, along with Halmir and his pretty wife Emlineth, Vehiron’s green-eyed son Lord Saeldur, and Oropher’s best friend and Chief Advisor Lord Herdir. Overseeing it all was Ivoniel, her kind brown eyes sparkling merrily as she saw to it that the younger elves were happy, content, and supplied with freshly baked gingerbread that scented the air with spice.

 

“And as the handle turned I tightened my grip on my pail of water, imagining the look on my older brother’s face when I finally got my revenge,” Vehiron was saying in a hushed voice to his captive audience. “Excitement coursed through my veins, invigorating me. The door opened then and I _dashed_ the water straight at Oropher.” With dramatic flair, the Lord Steward of Greenwood whipped a quarter-full cup of water out from behind his back and flung its contents towards the settee. The ellith screamed and laughed, raising their hands to protect their faces, while Fileg yelped and turned his face into Aiwen’s silver and green skirt. “But!” Vehiron added, “Alas, it was not my brother who stood before me. ‘Twas none other than Elu Thingol himself.”

 

Gasps and laughter rippled through the elves at the settee. Over at the table, even Talagan and Gelinnas had put down their cards and turned to stare open-mouthed at their uncle as Vehiron’s son Saeldur laughed under his breath. At Oropher’s side, Thranduil looked up at his father with wide eyes. Oropher just nodded, folding his arms over his chest with an older brother’s satisfied smirk. “But what happened, Uncle Vehiron?” Thranduil breathed.

 

“Well may you ask, nephew,” Vehiron sighed dramatically. “Come, sit, and hear this sad tale.”

 

“I’m suddenly feeling so much better about getting a spot of ink in Aiwen’s hair,” Fileg said, as Thranduil joined him on the floor.

 

“Many spots of ink,” Aiwen corrected her twin.

 

“Many _tiny_ spots,” Fileg allowed graciously.

 

As Aiwen reached down to tug Fileg’s braid, earning herself a sharp nudge from their older sister, Oropher went further into the room. He leaned down over the back of the settee, wrapping his arms around Felith from behind. The Queen turned her head to kiss him, cupping his cheek with an elegant hand. It was a short kiss, for there was plenty of company, but it warmed Oropher all the same. Vehiron hushed everyone so that he could resume his tale, and Felith laughed as sweetly as the peal of a silver bell as she returned her attention to him. Oropher smiled and stayed where he was, feeling Felith’s hand move to cover his and keep his arms around her.

 

What was it that Thranduil said? He had said that he felt sorry for his parents of the past. Oropher understood that. He grieved for his younger self, and Felith’s, and Vehiron’s, and all that they had lost. If only they had been able to see in those darkest of days that this was what the future held, Oropher thought, his heart swelling with love and pride for his family, as outside, the first snowflakes of winter started to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is in response to a 'silver bells' prompt on a LOTR Yahoo Group that I co-moderate. If you like the corporal punishment aspects of this story or are interested in seeing more, you may want to check out the LOTR Discipline Fanfiction Yahoo Group. It can be found at: 
> 
>    
> https://groups.yahoo.com/neo/groups/LOTR_DFIC/info
> 
>    
> You have to request membership in order to join, but just letting the moderators know that you enjoy LOTR fanfiction (or discipline fanfiction) is sufficient information to be approved for membership. There are a number of LOTR stories with discipline scenes included in the files section, and/or available by post number in the story database. Non-discipline LOTR fanfiction is also welcome, as is artwork. New authors are also welcomed!
> 
> New discipline-themed stories are regularly posted on the group, often before they are posted on AO3. As some of the discipline fanfiction authors post only on the Yahoo group, not all of the stories are available on AO3 or other public fanfiction sites. Thank you for reading!


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